The Embalmer
by blob80
Summary: "Tear off the mask. Your face is glorious." –Tyki Mikk/OC– He wasn't the sanest of individuals, nor did he pretend to be. But judging from their first meeting, neither was she. He'd always expressed himself before humans differently, but perhaps showing them his dark side was fun as well. Because even if death plagued him, sometimes it was worth the suffering. (FOUR-SHOT)
1. The Exorcist

Disclaimer: I don't own D. Gray Man.

* * *

 _ **The Exorcist © Blob80**_

…

 _There is pleasure in suggestion,_

 _More in patience,_

 _Most, however, in presence._

* * *

Her fingers trailed over cerise stained ruffles.

Over a torn off arm and a broken leg. A neck snapped in half and barely noticeable marks of tiny teeth along a pale shoulder—whether those marks were from an animal or a monster, she didn't know. But it was certainly an otherworldly being. Because they contrasted so wonderfully against the woman's skin, she could just imagine the look of either intense pleasure or crippling regret that must've stretched across her lips, before they were left. Red against stark white. Though she was merely speculating. Because they weren't red. The nameless woman's body had been drained of all blood, and as she placed the final touches of make-up on her already cold face, she smiled in unbridled delight.

What a beautiful sight.

Swathing the woman in a dress more suited for the occasion and its dreary company, she closed the door behind her. There was no more for her to do. Nothing left, but to wait for the dead woman's funeral. Where family and friends would cry in commemoration of a woman they never truly loved—but of course, for appearances sake, they'd need to run through the proper motions, lest society speak ill of them—for if they truly loved her, why would she have been advertising herself every night to faceless men that sought nothing more than a warm body and a good time?

They didn't even pay her. That was what really got to her. Not the fact that she whored herself off to dozens of poor and rich men alike, but that she didn't even seek payment. Or perhaps it was that she didn't need it. Yes, she was a rich little thing. She had to be. To order her services. When she was tasked to do something, they'd bought not only her skill. But her discreet tongue. Perhaps the woman just wanted to bring color into her drab world. Paint her days with lecherous fun. And like a madman with a brush, that's what she did. The scent of semen and play radiated from the woman's corpse. So thick, it was as if the men thrust it straight into her pores.

Still, the woman was beautiful.

She'd just never understand why she'd find the need to do such things. There were surely easier ways of self-deprecation. Then again, perhaps she loved herself. Perhaps she was so comfortable and in tune with her body that she didn't care what others thought. Because she loved herself so much that she didn't allow others to make her feel bad for living life the way she wanted to. That was a far more beautiful description—and it was the one she kept of the corpse in her back room. The very one that would go into a coffin tomorrow for men to mourn her loss and worship her one last time, before she was buried six feet under.

The scent of nicotine invaded her nostrils like the most relieving of balms, cutting through the putrid stench of dirt and formaldehyde and death. When she finally opened her eyes again, realizing that she'd been leaning against the door, she found a handsome man stretched like a succubus across her seemingly incomparable couch. It was a ratty thing that didn't belong under someone with such a beautiful face. His dark skin was a contrast to the white dress shirt, but his darker hair matched gloriously with his black pants, framing golden eyes in a way that could only be described as alluring.

For the past three months, he'd been coming and going as he pleased with nothing more than a smile in her direction and a genteel introduction.

"My name is Tyki Mikk, Miss," he had said with a bow, grabbing her hand and placing a kiss atop her knuckles, like she didn't smell of fresh carcass. "And you are?"

Later, she'd realized he had brought a dead man with him. And from his relaxed posture and easy grin, she could tell that he wasn't unused to seeing such things. Why he brought him, she hadn't a clue. But from the way his mouth had tilted up into a seemingly careless smile, she didn't think he knew either. Perhaps it was a whim. He looked like the type. Tyki didn't say much, as she began prepping the man out of instinct, despite not knowing his name or anything about his standing. Despite not receiving payment for doing so. And though she saw the clear marks of murder that trailed along the nameless man's body, she didn't bother interrogating him.

She merely did her job, then turned away. Content to leave the process of burying the man to him. Tyki didn't, however, and before she could say anything about it. A single black butterfly had floated past her head and began the dutiful process of swallowing the man in bite sized chunks. The surprise was clear in her eyes and before she knew it, he was laughing at her.

It was a startlingly pleasant sound.

Too lovely for such an appalling setting.

And by the time he'd ushered himself out, the very next week, he was back with another corpse on his shoulder. And a dazzling smile that turned dark when he summoned his butterflies of death. By then, he'd been decent enough to leave a sum of money on her table and had even cleaned up her shop. A small, yet durable place that fit her needs well rather than provided a place of comfort. Though she supposed she did find some sort of solace in her work.

Tyki was a demon, she'd decided one day when he came with a particularly bloody package on his back. A child, she later saw, after unwrapping the cloth that had been haphazardly thrown about him. Tyki was a demon that had come to haunt her and give her victims for her to beautify one last time, before they disappeared silently from existence. And because he was a demon, she didn't question him anymore than necessary.

A truly foolish thing.

But she liked him.

She wasn't stubborn enough to not be able to admit that to herself. It wasn't the romantic sort—though even she wasn't entirely sure of that—it was the sort of like that came from sitting long nights with someone whom she considered pleasant. A like that spoke of comfort and ease. Perhaps that was also his power of allure as a demon. But they shared the same scent—a truly difficult thing to come by—and she liked it. His odor had a touch of danger to it, whereas she had morbid enthusiasm. That strange flare added flavor to something she was already well acquainted with. He was open with his mania and it was refreshing. But what she found most agreeable was his display over her chosen profession and how he handled himself with each of her inappropriate smiles as she drained the bodies of blood and fixed their appearances. Spreading balms over their mangled selves.

Tyki looked at her with neither disgust, nor monotony.

Just a small smile on his face that told her he approved of her taking pleasure in his work. It was a sick and twisted smile, she knew. Yet, it was refreshing all the same.

She loved it.

"Miss Orvis," Tyki suddenly drawled, dragging her from her thoughts. His voice dropped into a whisper, as he corrected his mannerly slip. He hadn't meant to refer to her so formally. He knew she didn't like it. She'd told him that many times. Because Orvis belonged to her parents. "Monet."

"Yes?" she asked, snapping from her stupor and finally leaving her place by the door. She settled on a nearby desk, filing paperwork for the woman she'd just finished preserving. The sleeping beauty that made men weep. The world was already a little uglier now with her gone. But at least all women around the world could feel just a tad better about themselves in comparison.

"So you do have customers other than myself," he mused, taking an exceptionally long and unhealthy drag from his cigarette. He thoroughly enjoyed every second it spent in his lungs. "The first time I come to visit you without work and you're actually working."

"Yes," she repeated, though now with a different end tone. "Even if you decide to stay home or do your job, people will die with or without your assistance, Tyki."

"I know," he said, smiling in that way that could make the purest of women tremble before him. A smile that held secrets. The secret of writhing in throes of passion, surely. She wasn't tempted enough to find out. Tyki was pretty to look at, however. She could admit that. And the way his eyes lit up at the mention of his job somehow made him look brighter. Even she didn't know what his job entailed, but from the bodies he brought back with him, she kept to her demon theory. It certainly didn't seem too far off. It would at least explain the man's beauty. A demons beauty was strictly a matter of course after all.

"Thank you, though," Monet amended, fingering her black locks. As she continued to write. "For your continued patronage."

He laughed then. Amused and distinctly virile. "You're welcome, Miss. I enjoy the pleasure of your company. But—" he paused and Monet watched him stretch his neck, looking uncomfortable as he did so, "—it would help if you had bandages on hand. I'm sure I'd be able to more thoroughly enjoy our weekly meetings if I wasn't sporting such tender cuts."

"Rarely, do I enjoy the company of fickle men."

"Fickle?" he laughed again. "I assure you, it was a kitten that scratched my back."

"A kitten able to use perfume."

Tyki stood, walking over to sit at the very edge of her table, uncaring for the papers that fell to the ground upon his doing so. "I apologize then for lying so poorly."

"You're forgiven," Monet easily declared, smiling, as she leaned back in her seat. "If you had expressed regret for your more… crass actions, I would have thrown you out for lying again."

His gaze lifted toward the window, where rain pounded the streets below, creating puddles along concrete. "I'm very grateful for the shelter," he purred.

She merely blinked at him. "You clean my house every week. I can shelter you for a few hours. I never said I disliked your company."

Tyki smirked. "This is a nice place, but you're slovenly attitude makes it a hovel. I can't stand clutter."

"There's nothing beautiful about inanimate objects. They lack warmth, you know?"

"All too well."

"I don't find joy in caring for cold things."

Ironic, since she dealt with the dead.

* * *

Tyki didn't mean to keep returning.

He knew it was dangerous. But he'd always been closer to humans than the other Noah. He liked their strangeness and their quirks. Monet was especially peculiar. And because he was a hedonist by nature, he continued his pleasurable visits. It was just another one of his sudden whimsies. And never one to ignore his impulses, he acted upon them almost without thought. It was just second nature.

His interest had been stoked after all.

After that first night, when he walked into a house that sat precariously at the edge of town near the cemetery where the inconsolable went to grieve, he'd simply been curious. He knew that the one that lived there must have been either a priest, an undertaker, or a groundskeeper. And because the night had been long and the winds had been cool, he knocked on the door, briefly wondering if he should have morphed into his lighter form. But he'd decided against it at the last moment when he realized that the old man that lived there would have definitely seen stranger things than a man with scars on his forehead and unnatural eyes during his undoubtedly long life. To his surprise, however, a young woman had opened the door.

Her black hair was long and unkempt, her dress was the same and though not unfashionable, it wasn't modern either. Pale eyes stared out from paler skin that put his white version's complexion to shame, as if she hadn't seen the sun in ages. Not a difficult thing to imagine, really. For someone that lived on the edge of a town that's weather was more often than not darker than his mood, he was surprised some of the residents had a tan at all.

With nothing more than a timely bow and a minute assessment of her, he flashed her a smile that spoke his pleasure and surprise at both her age and gender.

And when he told her about the burden he'd left a short walk away from her home, he amused himself with watching her work.

"Why do you do it?" he had asked during one of his weekly visits, as he changed, fiddling with the cuff links of the expensive suit the Earl had so generously gifted him. He'd begun to keep a change of clothes at her home—along with a fine tea set he only really used for coffee. He wasn't very fond of the scent of blood. And that's what he usually smelled of whenever he came through her door with his newest job haphazardly thrown over his shoulder. He knew he could've just let the Tease eat them, but there was something that tickled his sadistic side whenever he watched her fix those he'd ruined.

It became a game after a while.

Sometimes he'd destroy certain parts just to see how much she could repair. At one point, she'd actually pouted when he'd finally brought in someone she couldn't fully restore. That was when he knew he'd gone too far. He toned down the next time. Because it wasn't a game if he gave her no hope of winning. And win, she did. Quite a lot. Though he didn't hate that. There was also pleasure in losing. In seeing the satisfaction flit across her face after she was done. He doubted she knew they were playing though. And he didn't bother telling her.

"Do what?" she had asked.

"Embalm."

"Because I want to commemorate life."

"Then you should go out and live it instead. Dealing with corpses is dreary. Unfit for a lady. I'd whisk you away, if you'd simply ask."

"I like my job."

"Do you like seeing the smile on the families' faces?" he'd asked, needing to know why she liked it. "That's all funerals are, you know? They're for the weak, sniveling people left behind."

"I like seeing them at peace," she'd declared. And perhaps it was that declaration that truly hooked him. It was such a peculiar trade, yet she found pleasure in it all the same. He, on the other hand, wasn't fond of the dead. Sure, he liked the process right before they died—more specifically, the bloody way in which they reached their end—but he had no interest in them after all was said and done. Boring things, they were. They couldn't speak, couldn't think, yet when she treated them, it was as if they'd suddenly spring up and show him that frightened look all over again. Right before he killed them.

It was exciting.

He was able to watch them be eaten without the unwanted distraction of tears and screams.

And so he continued to come.

Tyki watched her carefully, as she wrote out the final sentences concerning the young woman's funeral on a slip of paper, before sliding it into a manila folder. Her writing was smooth, cursive, and round. Very round. And he found himself tracing the lines on top of a note taped crudely on top of her desk.

"No work today?" she asked, leaning back in her seat. As he lit another cigarette. They tasted strange whenever it rained. He didn't particularly like it.

He shook his head. "I have the freedom to do what I please today. While there is pleasure in being alone, I'm not the sort that enjoys loneliness."

"So you choose to come here?"

"I figured the room would be a mess." Tyki shrugged, grinning playfully. "I see I wasn't mistaken."

"You'll spoil me if you keep cleaning up after my messes."

"A woman should be spoiled. I've always excelled at it," he muttered. And suddenly the warmth from the hearth paled to the fire welling between them. The look he gave her left her breathless—he knew it, he _felt_ it—and the surge of desperation and heat that left his own body surprised even him. The flames across the room were complacent in comparison. He was getting too close. But that had never stopped him before. It certainly wouldn't now. "And I enjoy spoiling you. This is a very different sort from the type of spoiling I'm used to, however."

"Feel free to stop when you tire of it then."

"I will," he assured, running a finger down her cheek, before cupping it. She smelt like him. Blood and death and cigarettes. Unappealing, yet he was fine with it all the same.

She closed her eyes and sighed, leaning into his palm. "You're a strange demon."

Tyki laughed, highly amused. "Is that what you think of me?" he asked, eyes shining. "You aren't far off. What does that make you, I wonder? Willingly hanging around a demon isn't a habit you should get into, Monet."

"You haven't killed me yet, so I must be doing something right."

"Your contentment is disconcerting."

"So are those butterflies of yours."

He smiled, bending close enough so that he could feel the warm exhale of her breath against his lips. "Thank you for your time, love. But my freedom has come to an end. At least for today. I enjoyed seeing you work. It's a shame I couldn't let my pets loose."

"Take an umbrella on your way out."

He grabbed his hat instead, tipping it politely, before he excused himself.

* * *

Tyki didn't return for weeks after his lethargic departure. The scent of nicotine was beginning to wear from her home. In its place was jasmine and lavender that came from a particularly rich client that believed her workplace needed a better aroma. It made her nose twitch.

Monet stared blankly at the four squares of her drawing room that doubled as her office. A red couch in the center with a low coffee table before it looked as inviting as it was comfortable. Which was not at all. How Tyki managed to relax on it was a wonder even to her. She certainly couldn't. Monet preferred the comfort of her leather chair. The place was horribly spotless, the garbage filled to the brim with used gloves, scrapped paper, and plastic wrappers. Her papers were pristine. The unused ashtray at the side of her desk, however, was a sore reminder of his lack of presence. She'd had many customers recently, since the holidays were near—the depressed seemed to collectively agree that Christmas was the best time to commit suicide—and she'd spent most of her time working. The bodies were nothing special. They provided no real challenge. Still, she enjoyed it all the same. At least she tried to.

Her hands lingered on the trash bin by her side. It wasn't as if he'd promised to return. He never had. She didn't see him as the type to do so. He came and went as he pleased, but if he had a lot to clean, sometimes he'd linger.

"He'd laugh," Monet muttered, "if he found out that I'm actually a neat freak."

She tipped the can over. Crumpled papers rolled across the floor and when she flicked a mountain of folders by her side, they fluttered all over the room, slipping under furniture.

"Am I a child?" she wondered, self-deprecatingly. "This room's going to be a mess if you don't come, Tyki."

It was then a knock came, urgently rasping against her door, as if death himself were on the visitor's heels. From the heaviness of the sound, she guess it was a man. And when Monet opened the door, she found her assumptions correct. He was handsome— _once._ His hair had thinned, his strong jaw was hammered down by wrinkles, and the blue eyes that met her own were dimmed by age. Still, his smile was dazzling. Even with the drear of their surroundings and his panting breaths. They were visible things. Puffs of white in the cold. He wore a black robe that would have been worthless had it not been for the many lines of silver all across its stitching.

One look at the holster at his side told her he wasn't one to be trifled with.

"Can I help you?" she asked, ushering him inside.

"Yes," he cleared his throat. "Are you the groundskeeper here?"

"For the cemetery, you mean?" Monet gestured out the window, not really looking at him. She could tell he was irked by the mess in the room, but she couldn't find it in herself to care. She sought only to make the dead comfortable. The living were a different matter entirely and since he didn't seem to be here for business, then his mentality was none of her concern. "No, I'm afraid the official groundskeeper lives on the other side. Closer to the town and closer to the cemetery's main gate. I'm the local mortician."

"I see," he said, nodding vaguely.

"Can I help you?" she repeated.

"There have been reports here." He eyed her, cautious. The way he chose his words was even more so. "Of Akuma. Have you heard of them, Miss…?"

"Monet," she supplied, instantly thinking of Tyki. "And I'm afraid I don't know what you mean. I live quietly here. Rarely, do I receive visitors. And if any demons were to come then I don't think I'd have the ability to truly recognize them."

"These aren't demons from fairytales or churches," he told her. "Akuma are… very noticeable. Lethal things."

"Then I haven't seen any."

"You seem to be taking this quite well," he observed. "Do you not believe me or are you really so confident in your ability to protect yourself against anything?"

Monet laughed at that. "I live in a graveyard, sir. Demons and ghosts don't scare me."

He shook his head, but smiled all the same. "They should, Miss Monet."

"If I was scared of death then I would have quit long ago."

"Seeing and experiencing it are quite different."

"I suppose you're right." Monet grinned at him. "Still, I've yet to experience such a thing. And I don't plan to either."

"Very well then, Miss Monet." He bowed. "Your confidence is reassuring, but if you do happen to see anything then please don't hesitate to call. I'll be staying at the Blue Basin Inn for the time being."

She curtsied in return. "Of course."

As he turned to leave, he came face-to-face with a shaggy haired man in overalls. His skin was as pale as hers and the cigarette that dangled from his lips was a welcome scent in her small room. The swirly glasses balanced on the tip of his nose hid his eyes from view, but he seemed like the ditzy sort, judging by the way he gave the finely dressed man a goofy smile, before awkwardly sliding out of the way.

"Sorry 'bout that," the newcomer said, stepping aside. As he scratched the back of his head. A small blush lit his cheeks in a terribly cute way. He reminded Monet of a puppy.

"No, I'm sorry for blocking your way." The nameless man shook his head politely, before turning to give Monet one last nod of farewell. "Well then, Miss Monet. It was a pleasure."

"Hoooo~" the newcomer muttered, watching the other walk away. "Rich guy, huh? He had some really nice clothes. I bet he could afford a really great funeral. Was he here for you, too?"

"No. He just had a few questions."

"Hmmmm…" he contemplated, taking a long drag from his cigarette. It was strangely similar to the way Tyki held his. Less refined, but the way it hung carelessly in his mouth reminded her of the dark haired man. They even had the same hair. Though his seemed as if it hadn't been washed in a week.

Monet tilted her head, gesturing the stranger in, assuming he was a customer. Because why wouldn't he be? It was strange to receive two non-paying visitors. Consecutively, at that. People tended to avoid graveyards. She didn't blame them. The stranger, however, stopped at the threshold of the door. His cheeks burned, turning the tips of his ears a beautiful red.

"Is something wrong?" Monet asked. And the tint darkened. "This room is my office," she assured. "It's okay to come inside."

"Ah!" He looked up quickly and took a deep breath, before stepping through the door. A bright smile on his face. It didn't disappear even when he looked upon the mess she'd—intentionally—made. "Kinda messy in here, don'tcha think?"

He nervously backed up at the glare she shot him, holding his hands up in the universal signs of surrender. "I mean…" he muttered, uncomfortable. "Nice place."

Monet sighed. "Someone usually comes to clean, but… he's not here today."

"He?" he asked, surprised. "Not a woman?"

She shrugged. "He enjoys it apparently."

"Hmmm…" His eyes continued to roam. "Wish I had someone to help cleanup. The guys where I work ain't exactly the neat sort, ya know?"

"All too well. I'll mention you to him. Maybe he'll be interested in cleaning your place as well. He's strange like that."

He laughed at that, shoulders shaking in absolute mirth and his glasses almost falling from his nose. Almost. "You like him? You sound like you do."

"Do I?" she questioned, not sure herself. But if he said it then it must have been true. What reason would he have to lie? "I suppose I do. He brings me work and I enjoy his company. Is that good enough?"

"S'pose so…" He shrugged. "Talking about another man is depressing me though."

"Then is there something you need?" Monet asked, getting down to business. The man was decidedly easy to speak to. His atmosphere was warm and welcoming, a complete opposite to the one they were speaking of. But she didn't hate it. He was earnest and bright like the sun. Something she didn't see much of in her life. Monet watched as he made himself comfortable on the lumpy couch. It suited him. In an impoverish way. Though she didn't dare voice that thought. It was too rude. But from the way his mouth tilted up knowingly, she wondered if he knew what she was thinking. His thick glasses made it impossible to tell.

"Nah," he muttered, waving his hand to and fro. Monet raised an eyebrow at him. "I was out here visitin' an old friend. I thought that ancient guy may have been harassing you, yea?"

"So you stepped up out of the kindness of your heart?" she asked in disbelief, stepping back in sudden suspicion. He was a scrawny thing. He didn't look like he could put up much of a fight.

"Chivalry ain't dead!" he said with a laugh and a smile entirely too bright for a mortuary. It was a nice, comfortable smile. He gestured to the empty ashtray at the side of her table, as he took a long drag from his cigarette. "Pass the ashtray, will ya?"

She reached for it, but then hesitated. Dark hair and darker skin under a half open shirt entering her mind. And Monet shook her head. She handed him an empty bowl instead. "It's not mine. I'm sorry."

The smile he gave her was forgiving.

* * *

When he left her office, it was in a far better mood than when he had arrived. The Earl was driving him mad with assignments and Road certainly didn't ease the burdens of his work. Still, he completed them without fail. As was expected of him. Though the effect it had on his mentality was something else altogether. Tyki enjoyed having spare time. And he hated having it taken away for any extended period of time.

So, when he'd seen the exorcist questioning her during his usual trip to her home, he'd acted on impulse. He'd quickly changed into his lighter version, observing the man as he left and committing his appearance to memory. The exorcist didn't recognize him, but that was only to be expected. He looked nothing like his usual self. Tyki hadn't meant to stay. He hadn't meant to ever visit her in his human form. But he'd also been craving her easy company for the past few days and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

And it was that desire that compelled him to walk through her door and spend time in her company as a normal man.

It was an… informative experience. To say the least.

But that was a thought for a later time. Right now, he stood at one of the old, rickety doors of the Blue Basin Inn and from the way the shadows below the door ceased their movement, the exorcist within knew he was there. He couldn't have an exorcist walking around, asking questions, and ruining the Millennium Earl's plans. More importantly, he couldn't let this place become overrun with exorcists. There was someone important to him here. Someone whose company he enjoyed. Which idiot had infested and planted the thought of Akuma here in the first place? He'd have to rid this area of the Akuma himself. It wouldn't take too long. But he could do that tomorrow.

Knocking, Tyki smiled as the man opened the door.

The barrel of a gun was promptly pointed at his head.

"Noah," he snarled, before firing.

The bullet missed and before he could react, Tyki was already behind him. His eyes gleamed, as his lips stretched into a smile worthy of masks and ancient jesters. The Earl would be proud.

"Allow me to liberate your head from your shoulders," he told the man.

"Neve—"

"I'm sorry. That wasn't a literal request," Tyki said placidly. "Please die."

The exorcist screamed louder than he liked. And by the time Tyki hauled the man over his shoulder and dragged him away, the entire town was awake. But his Tease easily took care of any witnesses.

* * *

Two languid rasps sounded against her door, breaking through the stillness that always settled with the cicadas during particularly peaceful nights.

And when Monet opened the door to her apartment, she wasn't surprised to find him leaning against the frame. Smelling of blood with his dress shirt half-buttoned. His top hat was nowhere to be found, allowing dark curls to fall temptingly over golden eyes. There was a cigarette in his mouth that tilted upward when he smirked. His hand brushed over her face. It was cold. So, so cold. But the heat in his eyes was anything but.

"I was just talking about you," she told him.

"With a customer?" he asked innocently, raising a perfectly formed eyebrow.

Monet shook her head, ignoring the way he looked at her in surprise. There was amusement in his gaze, and she wondered for a moment if he was stalking her. He was a demon after all. She wouldn't put it past him.

A butterfly floated past her ear and she stared as it passed.

Forcing her gaze away from the messenger of death, she turned to see a man in a familiar silver trimmed coat slumped against the wall. Blood pooled around him and her eyes widened when she found his own head cradled in his carcass' arms. Tyki tugged, forcing her gaze back to him.

"Hey," Tyki said, far too casual. "I have work for you."

She eyed him, reminded of the day he'd first come to her. But there was certainly something different in his gaze. As if he'd suddenly start saying things that didn't sound like him.

"I don't have much money on me right now," he told her, patting his pockets with his free hand. And with her keen eyes, she caught sight of swirly glasses in his dress pants. Had he killed that stranger, too? But when his smile widened in what seemed to be sudden remembrance of something, she saw the same flash of excessive warmth as the stranger that had come to visit her a few hours ago.

Just who— _what—_ was he?

"Let me cleanup for you instead," Tyki told her, already deciding in his head that it was a good enough trade. As he gestured with his chin toward the corpse behind him. "Think you can handle it?"

Well, no matter.

She didn't want to question a demon. Because, well… she'd been over this part already. There was no need to reiterate. Especially when he was waiting for a response. She'd been doomed the moment he first stepped through her door. She knew it. He knew it. They disregarded it. It truly didn't matter at this moment. And Monet felt her mouth twitch upward, as she motioned him inside, where the fire burned poorly in comparison to the warmth of his hands.

"Come in."

* * *

 _A/N: Heavily inspired by a manga. Kudos to you if you know which one it is. This was my first time writing for this fandom, so don't hate me for not including other characters. I haven't read the manga in ages and I didn't want to make them come off as OOC. Sorry if Tyki is OOC. I'm not really sure anymore, tbh._ _This three-shot is dedicated to NightOwlCC. You've been an awesome friend and happy early birthday! And allow me to shamelessly advertise by saying, check out her YYH fics!_

…

 _ **PLEASE DON'T FORGET TO REVIEW!**_


	2. The Akuma

Disclaimer: I don't own D. Gray Man.

* * *

 _ **The Akuma © Blob80**_

…

 _Ugly, hideous, monstrous, little things,_

 _All you know is play,_

 _You sneer, you snarl, you hit,_

 _But open your eyes,_

 _That's Master's hand you've bit—ashen gray._

* * *

Tyki wasn't exactly the best of influences.

In fact, he was far from it.

He was a handsome, high society sociopath at best.

And he knew that. He certainly had no qualms about admitting it to himself and to anyone that asked—or in Road's and the twins' case, accused—still, it didn't stop him from hanging around others and twisting their minds, tainting them in his color. His dark purple color. With a hint of velvet shade for flavor. It didn't take much, really. Most times, his mere presence was enough to darken another's soul. Others, it took a little more. A suggestive nudge here and there. An implied smile and baseless words. But during very rare cases, he'd find his own soul darkened from the brightness of another's light. It was an extreme thing that had only occurred to him twice before. The first time was with a young boy that went by the name of, Eeez. An innocent thing that made him think about the different facets of the world. The second was with an Exorcist named, Allen Walker. A white-haired youth with the uncanny ability to make his pulse drum in excitement and his insides twist in sadistic glee.

Tyki certainly hadn't expected those same emotions to brim a third time.

He wasn't disciplined enough to deny them reign, however. And as he watched Monet skillfully mold wax into the shape of a foot and stitch a severed head back onto a body, all the while covering the nasty threads with beautifully crafted garters and makeup, Tyki couldn't deny that his stomach churned in anticipation. His still heart pounded heavily in his chest. And a smile even stretched his lips. The sort of smile that would have made men tremble and lesser women rear back in fright. When Monet saw it, however, she merely tilted her head in quiet regard. A silent motion that knew what he was going to do next.

That accepted and didn't deny.

And he engraved that gesture to memory.

That beautiful, beautiful gesture.

Because as his soul darkened from her actions, the unstoppable urge to dim her own light banged inside of him like a slashing sword, drawing both shine and spark in an otherwise still night. No. That wasn't right. She had no light, Tyki realized. As his hand slid down the repaired corpse of the exorcist he'd killed the night before, nicking the topmost button from his jacket, before he summoned his Tease to finish the job. She'd once again done her job without question. Monet's soul was a dark thing. Not darker than his, but it certainly could be— _would_ be. Soon. It wouldn't be long now. Not with him hanging around her.

And for the briefest of moments, he allowed himself to wonder why she was the way she was. Tyki almost opened his mouth to ask. Almost.

He knew better than to question someone who hadn't questioned him. Tyki prided himself on his exquisite manners—when the door was open and the room plain for all to see, anyway—he wasn't going to delve into something that even he wasn't yet willing to share. He was open with many things. He was a gentleman after all. His affection, he offered freely. His smiles, he gave often. And politeness, he embodied.

But his background, he wasn't so ready, nor so willing to make available.

Not to a human, anyway.

He watched her fiddle about the room, preparing a pot full of coffee and pouring it into the expensive tea set he'd taken from the Earl's dinner table. Tyki didn't mind. He'd never had a taste for those smooth smelling tea leaves others were so fond of—contrary to his assurances to Road whenever she asked if he enjoyed her tea parties—tea had no flavor. Or perhaps it did, and those that told him so _weren't_ actually lying to him. But how was he to know? He couldn't taste it. He blamed the cigarettes. Not to mention that it was such a watery thing. Nothing more than tinted water. Coffee was thicker. Nicer to swallow. It eased his senses, as it burned its way down. A quiet accompaniment to the nicotine that had undoubtedly blackened his lungs the color of his skin.

Monet handed him a dainty little cup. Which he exchanged with a winning smile, before she turned back to the mound of paperwork at her desk. It was a mess. Like usual. And Tyki made a mental note to arrange it later.

"You weren't in bed this morning," Tyki said, plopping down on the lumpy couch. He eyed her as much as she didn't him. Her own were squinted, too preoccupied with a paper filled with words the size of ants. How anyone expected someone to read that was ridiculous. And for a distracted instant, he entertained the thought of grabbing the eyelids of whoever had sent that letter and opening them wide, as he brought his face closer than sin to the page. Would he be able to read it then?

"I wasn't," Monet replied.

"Did you have a customer? I heard someone."

Not just anyone. A _man_. Gruff and orderly and trying far too hard to either warn or charm his quite unexcitable mortician. He assumed it was the latter. With men, it usually was. The stranger had a deep voice that penetrated cement, and Tyki heard it from her room at the very back of the house. Granted, the building was small. But sounds didn't usually carry—let alone voices—he'd spent enough time in her house to know that. It had woken him from his fitful slumber atop her horribly flat bed. Where he'd fallen asleep, tired from the excitement of the night prior.

There were little things Tyki loathed more than being roused by the voice of a gent. Perhaps one of them was the lack of warmth in the place beside him. Another was the set of modest clothes still hung over the hanger. Had Monet stumbled out in her pajamas? It was likely. A close third would be his carelessness at the realization that he'd left his cigarettes in the drawing room.

 _Okay,_ he amended, _there are many things I hate more._

Still, the thought irked him. And he couldn't help but stare at her as she continued on with her work, clearly unconcerned by his growing agitation. The coffee helped. As did the nicotine. Though not by much.

"No," she finally said, and from the way the skin between her eyebrows pinched, he knew that she was thinking things better left alone. "He just had a few questions."

 _Ah,_ Tyki thought in understanding. _The face of déjà vu._

He knew that much. Because the last time she'd said those words to him, he'd asked the exact same question. Though his lighter version had asked in more words, and she, of course, didn't know it was him. But it was nice of her to think of his counterpart. Even if it did spark something inside of him when she thought of another man in his presence. Even if that man did happen to be him. Tyki shook his head and blinked twice in the all too sudden need to clear his head. He was clearly overthinking this.

"Questions?" Tyki pried, raising an eyebrow.

"One of his friends apparently went missing last night." Monet shrugged. "He told me to call him should I hear anything."

 _Why did he come to you?_ He wanted to ask, but bit his tongue. _To an embalmer living alone on the outskirts of a graveya—unless… he knew that his comrade came to visit. That means…_

"What did he look like?" Tyki asked, taking a long, slow drag from his cigarette, so she wouldn't notice the urgency making itself apparent in his tone.

Monet looked at him then.

Her eyes were chatoyant and her gaze was too pointed for him to not understand that she blamed him for the sudden disturbance of her peace. Tyki had never had formal schooling, but he didn't need a proper education to pick up on the signs and moods of others. He was well-acquainted with subtle hints. And if he understood people and their flesh, then there wasn't much left to know about the world. Technology came and went. As did science and religion and legacies. But people—now, they were a constant. And his knowledge of men—and _especially_ women—was infinite.

"He had brown hair, some scruff, and a big black mole here." She pointed right in the middle of her cheek. "He looked pale, but that could have been from his travels. The weather here disagrees with many."

Tyki looked at his own ashen skin, not really knowing what she meant. But he'd take her word for it. "Is that all?"

She tilted her head in thought. "He had a fine coat. Expensive. Like that man you brought in last night. Trimmed silver would fetch a high price on the black market. It's a shame your butterflies leave nothing left."

 _Ah,_ he thought, _I got too carried away, it seems. More pesky exorcists have arrived. Should I deal with them before or after the Akuma? Those grunts sure have gall to actually target a town I specifically instructed them_ _ **not**_ _to target. Decisions, decisions…_ he took a long drag from his cigarette, frowning when it reached its end. _Decisions._

"You didn't tell him of your latest work, did you?" Tyki asked instead.

"I don't speak of the bodies that come through my doors. Especially the ones hauled in by my demon maid."

"Maid?" he sputtered.

Monet merely smiled.

Sighing, he returned it. Glad, at least, for her discretion.

"Why the sudden interest?" she asked. "A friend of yours? Should I expect him _on_ my table?"

It was a tasteless joke. But he laughed all the same.

"I'm afraid I haven't had the chance to pick up any money," he told her. As he lit up another cigarette, reflexively checking how many he had left. Chain smoking really took its toll on both his wallet and attitude. He really should quit—should have long ago. Though it was easier said than done. And he'd never been the sort to deprive himself of the things he liked. Besides, she didn't seem to mind.

"Is that so…?" she muttered.

"And," Tyki held up a finger in mock brazen astuteness, "I already cleaned all there was to last night. So, I think I'll let my Tease handle things today. Unless… you had other methods of compensation in mind?"

He was playing with fire. An exceptionally cool and calm fire, but still fire all the same. And he loved every second of it.

"If I work…" Monet paused, biting her lip. The silence that accompanied her hesitation stretched for a moment and an age, and just as he was about to open his mouth to urge her to continue, she furiously shook her head and did so without prompt. "…will you stay another night?"

His eyebrows rose without his consent. And he vaguely registered the ash from his newly lit cigarette falling somewhere on the floor. His image of a brutally efficient player seemed to crumble and he schooled his expression into a placid smile, leaning back in his seat with all the ease of someone who'd known her for years and had every right to look so utterly _comfortable_ in her home. Tyki hadn't expected her to respond favorably—or at all for that matter—she was always so engrossed in her work that he didn't think she cared if he stayed or not.

Tyki suddenly stood, ignoring the way his knees urged him to sit again in protest.

"If you're going so far to tempt me," Tyki began, moving toward the door, "then I think I'll hurry and take you up on that offer, before you decide to change your mind when you realize just how economically taxing my presence is."

"Don't bring back too many bodies," Monet muttered, sighing, as she watched him grab his coat from the rack. Tyki shrugged it on, not even bothering to fix his rumpled undershirt.

"I won't," he assured. He had only one exorcist to get rid of. The rest were mechanically enhanced little things that knew nothing of obedience. He'd teach them what it meant to disobey a Noah. "Until tonight, Miss Monet."

He bowed, hat on his head, leaving only the sound of the clicking door in his wake.

* * *

Monet busied herself with scrubbing her table clean and prepping it for more work. She didn't know if Tyki was lying or not about returning, but she didn't want to risk it. He was a strange fellow. Though she knew he wouldn't leave without wishing her a proper farewell, he was too good-mannered for such a thing. How he could even stomach the sight of a dead body was far beyond her. But there was something in his eyes that spoke of experience beyond his years, of enjoyment, and of twisted pleasure.

She wanted to gouge those eyes of his right from their sockets. Well, perhaps _gouge_ was too strong a word. Monet merely wanted to touch them—no, that sounded just as bad—she wanted to touch not his golden irises themselves, but the pleasure and desire that sat within. Just out of her reach. He was at war with himself. It was an identity crisis, she knew. It was common enough. Seemed even demons had that sort of thing. But what interested her was not his inner struggle, but the _peace_ beneath. He accepted himself so wholly. The sort of acceptance that only came to the dead. To the ones _forced_ to accept it—whatever _it_ was. Sure, many claimed they were at peace. Sometimes they were even the epitaph of serenity. But he was different. So, so different. In a way she couldn't explain to another, not even to a fellow mortician—his peace simply… _was._

She wanted to know his secret.

Monet had been numb to things for quite some time now. She self-reflected enough times to easily realize that. But that was her norm. She couldn't imagine being anything else. Nor did she want to be. Yet, she was also interested in Tyki's own form of self-acceptance. So different from her own, yet it still yielded the desired results. He certainly didn't seem to suffer as a person because of his way of life. And though Monet didn't either—at least in her mind, she didn't—to others, she wasn't exactly the best social companion. Tyki, at least, got on well with others for as long as he allowed them his company.

Just how far did their differences stretch? Was it born from her own ineptitude or Tyki's desire for all things pleasurable?

Well, she had time to figure it out.

Overthinking never did anyone any good.

Monet snuck a peek at the nearby calendar, marking off another date. _27_ _th_ _of December,_ she read noncommittally. As she swept her dark tresses behind her and donned clothes more suited for the cold weather.

"He really is a demon," Monet said to air, her breaths were puffs of white that faded into mist. "If he can go out in this kind of weather with such little clothing."

Rubbing her hands together, Monet made her way past the sorry excuse of shrubbery that separated her home from the rest of the cemetery. Unaware that it, in fact, only made her house blend in more. Her eyes strode past lines of graves—few had flowers on them. This wasn't the sort of day to run outside and visit a loved one after all. Dead or otherwise. Because the sun was lethargic, barely visible amidst the biting winds and gray sky. And when the sun was lazy, everyone's body clocks seemed to take it as an excuse to copy the great ball's behavior. She, of course, wasn't exempt from such things. And moving her booted feet through the piles of snow was a chore in itself. One that she didn't want to do. But responsibility waited for no one.

When Monet finally settled before a large marked grave, she knelt and offered a kind word. She didn't believe in god—strange, since she believed in his counterpart. Devils and demons were just so much more… convincing, she supposed.

Her fingers trailed over the words in the stone:

 _In loving memory of,_

 _Martin & Ettie Orvis_

Her parents.

She had little memory of them, save for the fact that they had grins as wide as jester's and that they doted on her more than any parents should. Always dressing her in the most fashionable, most expensive things available. Which said a lot since undertakers really didn't make much. She appreciated the thought now, but back then she'd hated it. Children's dresses always had these ruffles on them that made her want to just yank the thing off and walk around in nothing but her pantaloons. But her father would scold her then. She hated when he was angry. Instead of lashing out with his tongue, he became very physical. In more ways than just mere hitting. Her mother was the same, though on a far more controlled scale. But violent, nevertheless.

Still, when they smiled, it seemed as though everything were alright. That their past transgressions didn't happen. Perhaps that was the start of her problems. Perhaps they were grooming her into their little doll—just as they'd treated her. But she didn't know better then, she probably still didn't. Because here she was honoring their deaths. Just as she'd cried when they died, not knowing that what they did to her just wasn't natural. She'd forgiven them as children with all of the childish innocence she held, despite their wrongdoings. Monet didn't think children ever truly lost that. Not until their teenage years at least.

"That was to be expected," some of the villagers whispered, eyeing her body in search of bruises and other types of assault. They wouldn't find any. She'd gotten good at hiding them over the years before their untimely deaths. "What could merchants of death know about care?"

Her parents, contrary to their actions toward her, knew much about love. They'd found solace in each other after all. And they were still entrusted with beautifying the dead, despite their reputations. They took pride in their work. They enjoyed it. That was, perhaps, the one good thing they'd passed onto her. And she knew, without a shred of doubt, that they loved her. In a sick way. But love had many forms. Obsession could be considered one, depending from where one looked.

If she were completely honest with herself, she might even say she missed them. Not the nights of fright and shivering behind her blanket. But the days when the sun shone as bright as their smiles. Perhaps she should go see someone about her experiences and thoughts, but that was simply out of the question. She'd dealt with it on her own. And though she did feel things a little less nowadays, it seemed that there were still those in the world that didn't seem to mind.

Shuffling her feet, Monet looked down at the grass. Something wet slid down onto the dirt, darkening it. Was it raining? No. It was cold, but that musk right before a downpour wasn't there. Yet the drops still kept falling.

And it was then she realized how hard it was to not revert into a little girl before her parents. Well, this occasion only came once a year. So she supposed the crack in her already flawed façade was fitting. However uncomfortable the warmth trailing down her cheeks may have been. She continued to stand there, as if rooted to the spot.

Until even the words on the stone became nothing more than blurs.

* * *

Tyki walked languorously down the dirt road until it became a paved street, where women whispered as he passed. He offered them a kind smile and a small bow that made them squeal in delight and made their lovers' eyes twitch in unbridled jealousy.

But he wasn't here for them.

Though he was here for a good time. Just not the sort of pleasurable affair people of his class usually came for in the countryside. He had no mistress here, nor was he searching for one. Monet hardly counted. Despite the fact that he'd slept in her bed and he came here, hiding from the other Noah like a teenage brat in need of a slap to the face. She wasn't his mistress. His secret, perhaps. His hideaway when he wanted to satisfy his more wanton side without the burdens of the Earl's commands in the back of his head. It was strictly a personal affair. But not to the point of feelings being involved. At least, he hoped not. And he made a mental note to at least try and put a leash on his own hedonism.

Tyki rounded a corner behind a dirty alley when the eyes of the townspeople slipped past him. His skin lightened and his figure morphed into something a little more human, as he hurriedly changed his clothes. Where did he keep his spares? Now that was a thought better left for later, but he did save it. Perhaps he'd answer if Monet asked. Then again, she had no idea he had a light side.

"Hey!" someone called. "You! Black hair, yes! You, look here."

Someone grasped his shoulder and Tyki whirled around, taking two steps back out of instinct. But when he saw the exorcist that greeted him, his shoulders eased into a posture of nervousness, as he slid his glasses further up his nose. What an unlucky man. Tyki certainly hadn't expected the man to come straight to him. What's more, he had wanted to do his job for him. He may have even just let him go on his way. Getting rid of the Akuma here took top priority in his books. Tyki didn't want any other Exorcists, or Noah for that matter, to come strolling around his hidden space.

He hated investigators that had no respect for his privacy.

 _Should I kill him?_ Tyki wondered. _Would they send more exorcists? It's likely. Though the others should be moving by now. I don't think they have many left to spare._

Straightening his hand, Tyki prepared to yank the man's heart from his chest. But he was forced still, as the nameless man grasped his wrist and pulled him behind his large back. Caught in the moment, Tyki's acting skills naturally came into play. And he blamed it on the fact that he was in his white form's skin. A squeak escaped him, as he fell gracelessly to the ground, holding his glasses like his life depended on them. The exorcist was shouting something, and distantly, he heard sounds of an explosion ring across the alley's walls. It made the ground shake.

"Stay there," the Exorcist ordered in that gruff voice Tyki remembered hearing through Monet's walls. He looked very reliable. And for some inexplicable reason, Tyki wanted to laugh. "I heard from the townspeople that you were seen with that woman by the cemetery. Stay away from her. From what they've been saying, she may be the one responsible for all these Akuma running around."

And right on cue, one of the mechanical beings appeared in front of them. Large and round. It floated menacingly, as destruction followed it. There were a few level two's somewhere in the distance.

 _Then why didn't he kill her?_ Tyki thought.

"I have no proof yet," he replied. As if he could hear his thoughts. "But I think this is proof enough. Look at all these things! She must be doing something to them. Another follower of the Earl. These are Akuma, boy. And you should run now because it looks li—"

The man stopped, his voice catching in his throat, as he looked down at the arm speared into his chest. His eyes drifted behind him and he was met with dark skin and gold.

Cold, cold gold.

"Like what, Sir Exorcist?" Tyki asked, his glasses tipped dangerously low on his nose. He felt strange in these clothes while in his original form, but there was no time to change. Tyki held up a hand and the Akuma before them wilfully obeyed his silent command to stop.

"N—Noah!" he choked out, blood spilling from his mouth.

Tilting his hand inward, Tyki fingered the first button on the man's coat and plucked it from its home, before grinning wildly. The man trembled and he dug his hand just a little deeper.

"Goodbye, Sir Exorcist," he whispered, the screams and explosions around them fizzled into the background. "Pleasant dreams."

As the man dropped to the ground, Tyki turned just in time to see a human woman fall on her rear, looking every bit like a frightened mouse. Tyki sighed, he wasn't the sort to hurt women, but from the way tears raced down her cheeks and her mouth opened to let out a truly ear-shattering scream, his limbs moved of their own accord. A hand planted itself over her mouth and placing a finger over his own lips, he snapped her neck.

Just as more shouts of terror filled the air and he cursed himself in the realization that he'd done that in broad daylight. With the Akuma trailing almost obediently behind them. Well, how was he supposed to fix this now? He still had to punish his underlings for going to this town, but he couldn't just leave all these witnesses lying around. All ready to spill their guts to the closest person willing to listen. And Exorcists were always willing.

Seems his workload had significantly increased. Hopefully the Noah wouldn't find out about it.

But even he knew that was wishful thinking.

* * *

Tyki was swathed in layers of blood by the time he came back to the cemetery. Only now realizing that it actually had a name. _Graystone Crypts,_ the sign read. It would soon find itself with a number of new denizens. An entire village worth actually. Even the grouchy groundskeeper wasn't around. And Tyki wondered for a moment if he was caught in the one-sided fight at the town. It was likely.

The other Noah would certainly be on his case come morning. He wasn't looking forward to it.

His fingers twitched and he lit up. As he made his way toward the familiar home covering the horizon, shouldering his burden further over him, he found Monet seated at the step just outside her door. Her face was an impassive thing, though her eyes were as red as the setting sun. Had she been crying? Did she hear the screams? He didn't doubt it. But why would she mourn over the loss of townsfolk that spoke ill of her to her face?

"Good evening," he greeted, dropping the dead man to the ground and politely tipping his head. His fingers were sore. He didn't think that could actually happen. But they were. And as he grasped his hat, they ached even more. He'd snapped too much. Literally. His snapping made the Akuma self-destruct around the village—even the level twos—but they also strained the tips of his fingers in a decidedly strange way.

It bothered him.

"Busy day?" she asked, eyeing the body. It was bloody and had a gaping hole over where the heart should have been, but it wasn't irreparable.

"Quite," he replied. "And you?"

"I went to visit my parents."

 _Ah,_ he thought, understanding dawning upon him, _so she wasn't worried about the town._ The thought satisfied him, somewhat. He couldn't imagine her breaking down in front of him because of his misdeeds. At least he knew she wouldn't be averse to cleaning up all those the Tease hadn't had the time to gobble. He knew he should have felt worse. But he'd done this too many times to be bothered by it now.

Monet stood, dusting her dress off. He'd never seen it before. A dark thing that made her look more melancholy than what her expression suggested. It didn't suit her, he decided. It was as sullen as her, but outrageously so.

"I've brought you work," he said, changing the subject. He didn't want to pry. Not now. He had too many things fighting for his attention, and he knew that she'd see his true face soon—well, a _truer_ one. His identity as a Noah. Because whether he liked it or not, his family was coming. Sooner rather than later.

 _Would she like it?_ he wondered. _Would she like the face of a murderer?_ But ever since he stepped foot on her strangely happy-looking welcome mat, she knew he was one. And she didn't turn him away. _Perhaps she's interested in demons,_ he mused, watching as she thoroughly inspected the man's body, grasping his face and tilting it here and there. _She's quite close to becoming one, herself._

Tyki entertained himself with the thought of her suddenly awakening into a Noah.

He liked the idea more than he'd ever admit.

"You did quite a number on him," she commented offhandedly.

"You don't seem too surprised."

"I'm used to it."

"Should you really be getting used to such things?"

Monet smiled at him then, a small upward tilt of her lips that made him reach out to run his thumb over it. It disappeared when he did, of course. But not fast enough for him to not commit the smile to memory. He'd always been disturbingly observant. And at that moment, he especially loved that trait of his. No matter how much Road jolted him about it.

"Well," she began, "when you keep bringing back bodies here, it's only natural that I adjust."

"Hmm…" he hummed, taking another drag from his cigarette. The white smoke blended well with his frosty exhales. It was far too chilly. If the Earl were here, he certainly wouldn't have permitted the weather such insolence. Thinking of the Earl made him think about all of those fancy family dinners. And he suddenly realized that he hadn't eaten yet. "Do you have plans for dinner, Miss Monet?"

She shook her head, looking a little wistfully at the body. Monet enjoyed her work, but it seemed she enjoyed other things as well. However little they may be. Well, he'd eventually realize them all.

"Not anymore," came her breathless reply.

"Shall we go, then?" he asked, holding out a blood-stained hand. He reeked of it. But so did she.

Monet grasped his cool fingers in her own much warmer ones.

"Nothing red," she told him. "Pasta is simply out of the question today."

And he laughed.

Seemed he had a fondness for tasteless jokes. Well, a little morbidity never bothered him.

"Something with a little more bite, then?" he suggested, tugging her forward. As smoke and cold enveloped them both. He remembered seeing a restaurant in town while he was busy rampaging. They had wine and fancy seats and plenty to choose from the tables that the others had vacated in favor of running. They didn't get very far. "I know just the place."

* * *

 _A/N: Yes, I just released this a few days ago and yes, this was a legit update, but… I'm guessing there are no complaints, huh? *grins* Tell me if Tyki becomes OOC. I'm trying to make his Noah side plain. But it's… difficult._

 _Only one more chapter to go. I'm still working on the third installment and I'll more than likely release it in a week or less than that. Maybe a couple of days? You can expect it to be as long as this. This fic is my break from my second novel, anyway. It's pretty amusing to write. I'm waiting for this fic to actually get a few more follows, tbh. The feedback for it was kinda disappointing compared to my other one-shots. And I thought this was a pretty good premise, too. I think its cause this is a dead fandom. But once the new season comes out, I can just imagine this fandom blowing up again. A shame this will be finished by then. But I wanted to say thank you to those sticking by for these three chapters! You guys are awesome._

 _And, once again, this fic was a request from my friend, NightOwlCC! It's almost done, and I swear the ending won't disappoint you!_

…

 _ **Please review!**_


	3. The Noah

Disclaimer: I don't own D. Gray Man.

* * *

 _ **The Noah © Blob80**_

…

 _We're the chosen, we're the choice,_

 _We're the darkness, granted voice,_

 _But my eyes are open now—I can see,_

 _My light is shining, it's calling out to me._

* * *

Dinner was a strange affair.

Or the walk to it was, perhaps, more accurate.

Monet certainly hadn't expected his actions once the dirt road ended and the scratched granite roads of the town began. Her nose was assaulted with the startling scent of copper, destruction, and old fear. She was used to disdain whenever she stepped foot in the town, but not blatant fear—the townspeople weren't that plain. They usually hid behind their hands, whispering ill tidings as she passed. But now, there were no furtive whispers or scornful glances. Yet their feelings of terror somehow remained, coating the town with dread. Monet saw smoke trailing from a few of the farther houses, but other than the man by her side, her only other companion was silence. Whole and encompassing. She wondered, for a moment, if Tyki had decided to transport everyone to another dimension using the powers only demons held. Because when she peered through an open window, many things seemed to be intact. As if the owners had just up and left their homes with no notice whatsoever.

Perhaps they tired of their boring lives here in the countryside. But even she knew that was impossible. And when they neared the town square where the scent of copper and iron was almost unbearable, she didn't object when Tyki slipped behind her and wrapped a pure white handkerchief around her eyes. Whatever words she had died in her throat, as he led her to some unknown destination. He seemed to have stolen her voice. She would need to find out where he kept such things because it wouldn't do for her not to reclaim it. Things were safe in his keeping, she was sure, but leaving something of such import in the hands of a deceptively handsome demon wasn't a comforting thought.

If she wasn't careful, he'd break it. And she wasn't foolish enough to believe it would be an accident. A thousand warnings tumbled from her mind. All of them spoken in her father's voice. They suffocated her in a way that felt oddly comforting and appalling all at once. Her father's anger had always been intense. And his love had been equally so. It was only right for her to remember both. Sometimes one without the other, but then her memories would twist and she'd forget who it was she was trying to recall.

Tyki's abrupt halt snapped her from her thoughts.

He dropped her hand and reached out to untie the knot from the back of her head. Monet squinted at the sudden intrusion of light, even if it was from tiny, flickering candles. The place was beautiful in the soft dimness. The tables and chairs were in awry disarray and food sat stale and forgotten on glass plates, but there was a sort of hanging gloom in the air that reminded her of home. It was decidedly revitalizing. And Tyki bowed in front of her. The perfect gentleman. Despite half his clothes stained with blood and despite the way he shrugged off his jacket, plucking open the top two buttons of his undershirt in ease.

He had a confidence about him that was hard to miss.

Tyki tugged her forward, seating her in a chair, as he lit up another one of his seemingly endless supply of cigarettes. Where he hid them, she didn't know. In an alternate dimension, she mused, where they sat fresh and kempt inside expensive cases of silver and gold.

The light of the candles reflected against his ashen skin and golden eyes found hers in the darkness. Monet leaned back in her seat, sighing, as she watched the ashes of his cigarette fall on the floor. He didn't seem to notice. His gaze was unyielding and she wondered for a moment if he knew he was staring. Of course he did. Tyki poured her a glass of wine, before plucking a nearby tray and placing whatever dish that lay within before them both.

It was some sort of fish, they realized, when they lifted the silver lid. It must have been very expensive, judging from the way it was so beautifully presented. White sauce lined the top like glaze. And when she dipped the tip of her fork in it, the taste was decidedly divine. Biblical at least. Tyki watched her expression for a moment, before following her example. As if she were the guinea pig. Perhaps she was. It certainly seemed like it.

"Well…?" she asked, watching him roll his tongue.

"It's good," he said, snatching his wine and taking another drag from his cigarette. His chain smoking must have interfered with his sense of taste, but she was at least glad he could still realize the sauce's subtle flavor. "Considering its been sitting here for quite a while, it's really very passable."

"Send my compliments to the chef," she said, taking a more confident forkful.

He waved her comment aside, his eyes naturally falling to the kitchen behind them that wasn't exempt from the burning silence that had encompass the town. "If he's still there," Tyki said vaguely. If his corpse, that is, still remained then he'd even thank the man. If it wasn't, however, then he'd settle for complimenting the kitchen air.

"I wonder where he must have gone. To leave in the middle of work like this is simply unacceptable."

Tyki saw through her eyes more than felt the smile that stretched across his lips. An easy and casual thing. That made his fingers tremble so violently, he almost dropped his cigarette. His gaze dropped to her dress of their own accord. As if his eyes had a mind of their own. And he found the soft rise and fall of her chest strangely relaxing amidst their murdered surroundings. Though he was the one at fault for allowing his Noah side free reign, it was still disconcerting to realize that he'd done it all in his white side's garb. A stain on his lighter half. He'd have to get rid of the clothes and find something— _cleaner._

"I'll be sure to pass along your complaints," he told her. "Along with your reluctant compliments."

"Please do."

They fell into silence after that.

Tyki didn't seem to be in a talkative mood. Neither was she. And so, they continued until their shared meal was finished and the wax of the candles had significantly melted over the counters they stood on. No one would be cleaning that up. And the inner neat freak inside of her begged to scratch it off. But she couldn't do that. Tyki would laugh if he found out she hated mess and clutter just as much as he did. Nor was she in any mood to be on the brunt side of his teasing tongue. Not after she already asked him to stay another night. Why he agreed, she couldn't say. He looked like a busy man, contrary to his almost lethargic way of moving.

If anything, Tyki was a panther. Graceful, dangerous, and, like any cat, he only moved when he saw fit. Or when prompted by whoever could call themselves his master. But she was sure Tyki had one. He didn't seem like a stray. The way he moved sometimes or the way he'd sink into her couch after a long day indicated someone yanking on his leash. Monet simply concluded that he must not have minded the leash, so much as the collar. But he looked willing enough. Just terribly slothful about it all. Maybe he liked that sort of play. He was a hedonist after all. And with strange taste, judging by the fact that the usual company he kept was her. An embalmer wasn't actually the most welcoming companion. Her natural scent alone was enough to make someone scrunch their nose in distaste. Formaldehyde didn't smell of vanilla and roses.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, smoking his cigarette. He watched her, as she leaned back in her chair. One elbow propped lazily against the rest, cradling her face in her palm. He could reach over and snap her in two if he so wished. Monet didn't think he'd do it. But somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew he'd entertained himself with the thought on more than one occasion. The gleam in his eyes said it all.

Monet stalled her answer, watching his eyes flicker disinterestedly over her face. He was distracted. If she didn't observe him so much, she wouldn't have noticed. But he wasn't exactly looking at her. Sure, his gaze swept across her like fire, but his attention was focused solely on something behind her head. Over the right side of her hair, and Monet was tempted to turn around and look. She knew better, however. Something dangerous lurked over her shoulder. And if she turned, then the unpleasantness would settle fully.

Instead, she waited.

One moment. Two. Then three.

Just as she was about to finally answer his question, a laugh resounded in her ear and she stilled.

A ridiculously round man stepped out from behind her. He was tall for someone so contradictingly stout, standing an entire foot taller than Tyki.

And his gray skin was sickly compared to the latter's flawlessness. But he donned a top hat that strangely reminded her of the Portuguese man. Were they related in some way? She couldn't see it. But then, why was he here? A white gaze and an even whiter smile turned to her. Monet didn't flinch, but she might as well have. His smile rivaled her parent's in wideness and he shared their scent—except much worse. He was far worse than anything her imagine could conjure.

She'd never seen anyone more foreboding.

The laugh he gave sent shivers of terror down her spine. An emotion she thought herself no longer capable of exuding. Tyki's eyes narrowed for the briefest of moments, before he settled calmly in his seat. As if he expected the strange man's appearance. Perhaps he had.

Monet was the first to break the quiet that settled after the stranger's disturbing laugh. Just how did he get here? Another demon? Tyki was enough. In fact, she could hardly handle his own quirks.

"Good evening," she greeted tentatively, slipping back into her usual self. After the initial dregs of terror slinked through her body like water. The demon's smile stayed in place, his spectacles shining in the soft candlelight. "Are you also here for dinner?"

"Miss Orvis," the man greeted with a bow, startling her with her own name. He looked like a horror painting come to life. Then again, Tyki also looked like a painting. Was that where demons came from? She'd have to burn all the portraits in her home then. Granted, they weren't many. But it was disturbing now. "I'm afraid not." He laughed rather rambunctiously. "I just dropped by to see what was so important that a beloved part of my family did something without my explicit consent."

Monet swallowed. Acutely aware of Tyki's eyes on her. "I'm afraid our dinner has dragged on. I'm sorry if I kept him."

"No," he whispered, pleased. "He still has a bit of time."

"Ah, I see."

Awkward silence settled once more and Monet realized how truly inept she was at such things. But she didn't go so far as to chastise herself over it. The man was a—literal—walking ball of randomness. He must have been at least used to awkward silences. Tyki, however, was the one to break it this time. Taking a long drag from his cigarette, as if in preparation, he stood and bowed politely to the man.

"Earl," he greeted, turning to her. "This is Miss Monet Orvis." Tyki turned to her this time, his gaze indecipherable. "Miss Monet, this is the Millennium Earl. My benefactor… I suppose you could say."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Monet said, cursing her raspy voice. The Earl didn't seem to notice. If he did, he was kind enough to not mention it. Still, his smile unnerved her. It remained in place even as he spoke. A feat in itself.

The Earl laughed loudly. "Now, now," he chastised, pushing Tyki back into his seat. "You two are a bit too gloomy. Did I interrupt something? Hmmm… Did I?"

Tyki shook his head, waving the Earl's carefree attitude off. As he asked, "Where's Lero? It's strange for you to leave him behind."

The Earl mimicked Tyki's action, dismissing his action with much more buoyancy. "Ne, ne, its bad manners to answer a question with a question, Tyki."

"Ah, sorry, sorry." Tyki offered a strained, yet somehow still at ease, smile. "No, you didn't interrupt anything. We just finished actually."

He laughed again. That horribly creepy chortle that sounded as if it belonged in a circus that specialized in horror. "I see, I see! Come with me then, Tyki. You'll need to attend another dinner, I'm afraid. We're all waiting for you."

He flashed his bone-chilling smile at Monet one last time. And then the Earl was gone, _skipping_ out the door like an overgrown child. As he hummed a disturbing, but catchy tune under his breath. Where he was the star. Had he truly lost his heart? Monet didn't think demons had one. Perhaps he was a special case.

Tyki knew better than to disobey the Earl's command, and as he stood once more from his seat, he offered Monet a polite smile and a casual tip of his hat. His hair moved just enough for her to get another peek at the scars lining his forehead. They were eerie in the darkness. But nothing close to the Earl. Tyki stubbed the last of his cigarette under his shoe, uncaring for the restaurant. It was abandoned now anyway.

"I'm afraid duty calls, Miss Monet. I have a feeling this time will be a tad longer than usual. I'll return when time permits." Monet nodded back politely. She made a move stand, but Tyki easily stopped her. "Stay for as long as you like. But don't wander. Lest a few ghosts decide to haunt you."

And with that, he disappeared through the door as well, chasing after his plump benefactor. Monet let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. As the door finally closed behind him, sealing her in a room filled with silence and the flicker of slowly dying flames. The scent of blood and nicotine still lingered in the air, comforting her in a way that it shouldn't have.

True to his word, Tyki didn't return for quite some time.

It was lonelier than she expected.

* * *

Tyki was frustrated.

Not that he showed it all that much, but it was evident in his wry tone and the sarcastic remarks he shot the twins when they argued. He'd always been sardonic to a fault, but his remarks now often tethered along the thin line between gentleman and savage. He clearly needed a break. They all did, really. None of them were used to constant jobs. And when Tyki realized that that damn joker inside of his card couldn't erase Allen's name, his frustration reached new heights. He didn't like failure. Especially when he knew he hadn't. It was more work. And now he had to deal with all of the utter _crap_ the other Noah threw his way.

Until he could meet that exorcist boy again at least.

It wouldn't be long now. Still, their remarks were… unpleasant. They grated on both his ears and his nerves, and Tyki wanted to slap them with one of those koi he'd found in a nearby pond a few days ago. Perhaps that would knock some sense into them, seeing as how the twins hadn't accomplished their mission either. And there were _two_ of them. Not to mention the tranquility of where he currently was— _Japan._ The place grated on his nerves. In more ways than one. He didn't exactly know why. It just did. Perhaps it was because of the looming knowledge that they'd be putting their little plan into play soon, which meant that he wouldn't have any free time.

He longed to kick back and relax with his friends. It didn't matter where. Anything was better than this stuffy place. He'd gotten his fill of bloodshed and murder, and now he just wanted to play cards with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, as he swindled the sorry idiot that decided to play him. Was that so much to ask? Apparently, it was. Because Tyki turned to find the twins grinning blindingly at him. Their makeup made them look paler than they were. In fact, they seemed like they belonged on some stage banging their heads rather than the Earl's fancy drawing room. Road sat a distance away, trying to conquer her homework. Her purple head shaking as she thought out loud. Lacking a formal education himself, Tyki didn't know what she was doing, so he didn't bother offering his help. Whatever she was doing involved a complicated array of numbers and letters that he doubted she'd ever truly use in life.

"What?" Tyki finally asked, looking pointedly at the twins. Tired of their constant staring and the leers that adorned their faces. Was this how women felt when drunk, ugly men stared at them? It was distressing. And, for a moment, he thought of Monet, wondering if his slinking eyes ever gave her this feeling. He doubted it. But he thought of it all the same. "Stop staring at me."

Jasdero merely pointed and laughed infuriatingly at his face in a way that made Tyki's eyebrow twitch, before the blond turned to mess with a teacup. He clearly had a few screws loose—far more than any of the other Noah, barring Sweet Tooth, of course. Tyki took a long drag from his cigarette to ease his frazzled nerves. Why was it that his family was able to exhaust him in ways not even the most difficult of fights could? And they wondered why he bothered keeping a light side. It was interesting, but the escape it provided from his life as a Noah was one of the most pleasant contrasts he'd ever known.

Devit, thankfully, took the time to actually speak. His torso bending at the waist, as he dropped to eye level. Tyki debated swatting him away, but thought better of it. The Earl hated when they fought. Though they did it often with their words, things changed when physical contact became involved "Well…" Devit began, "are you going to tell us why you were late for dinner?"

"I had a prior engagement," Tyki said vaguely.

"Prior engagement, he says," Devit scoffed. "Those humans again, Tyki? A cool guy like you shouldn't be hanging with those idiots."

"A boy like you wouldn't understand."

"Don't act all high and mighty." Devit laughed, smiling a little too smugly. "You're running off playing, while your target is still alive! Are you an idiot?"

"Oh?" Tyki muttered, leaning back in his seat and raising a challenging eyebrow. "And what about your target? Cross Marian, last I heard, is still well and very much _alive._ Seems to me like we all suck at our jobs."

"I'm going to get that debt leaving rooster," Devit suddenly exclaimed, turning in on himself as curses rolled invectively from his tongue. Devit strangled air, imagining the red-haired general's life being slowly pawed away. "Just you wait, Tyki. I'll finish him way before you—"

"Not me!" Road suddenly exclaimed, raising her hand proudly. Her eyes never left her homework. "I did my job, so I get to play and do whatever I want."

Their lips collectively settled into a thin line, as they looked at the ever eager Road. Her eyes shone in childish glee, as she got out a calculator.

"Ah, shut it," Devit grumbled, turning away.

Tyki, always the more agreeable, humored her. "And what do you plan to do?"

"Visit Allen!" she exclaimed dreamily.

"Don't kill him now," Tyki muttered. "That's my job."

"I know!" Road finally turned to him, her expression set into a pout. "I just wanted to play for a little while."

"Your games make blood rain," Debit interjected. Grinning at Road's affronted expression.

"They do not!"

"Whatever you say."

Tyki sighed, as they settled back into the familiar territory of petty arguments. Where they got all their energy was beyond him. He'd never been so energetic. Not even as a child or as a brash teen. Reckless, sure. But never robust. Just looking at them made him tired. He needed to spend time in more subdued company, or more preferably, _adult_ company. Where were the rest of the Noah when he needed them? Why was he always the one stuck babysitting children? Even the Exorcists he was assigned to kill were children—nothing more than teenage brats that had been chosen by a false god. Couldn't their god choose more… mature hosts? Seemed god was never wholly kind—no matter the religion or belief.

"Ne~ Tyki!" Road exclaimed, settling her arms down on the armrest by his side. As she looked adoringly up at him, giving him those puppy eyes that always worked on the Earl.

"What?" he asked, staring abjectly at her. He could already feel the questions about Allen ready to burst forth. But to his surprise, none came. A far more dreaded one was asked in its place.

"Who's Monet?"

Tyki stilled, before he schooled his surprise behind a casual shrug and an ambiguous tilt of his head. "And where did you hear that name?" he asked quietly, not wanting to garner the attention of the arguing twins barely six feet away.

Road smiled. A knowing smile that should have never graced a child's lips. But Road wasn't exactly young, despite her appearance. "The Akuma told me."

Seemed he had a few more Akuma to destroy.

"And what did they tell you?"

"That Tyki is distracted!" Road's eyes crinkled upward in a face all too familiar to him. "I think I'll go see her."

Tyki blinked ever so slowly, trying not to let his expression show how much the thought of that rattled him. Finally, he closed his eyes and sunk languidly into the cushions. As he muttered a disinterested, "Do what you want."

Road's lips puckered in disappointment.

* * *

Road wasn't true to her word, Tyki later found. After visiting Monet for the first time in months. A lot happened during that time spent away, but he appeared before her as he always had. With a smile, a polite bow, and work.

Work, work, work.

He knew that she knew there was something wrong, but she didn't bring it up. He was thankful for that. Content to remain by her side. And as time continued to pass, his workload eased and his family let him go where he pleased again. They clearly didn't know how to handle him anymore. Not after what happened in the Ark. The Noah of Pleasure had been eating with them less and less lately. A frequent absentee of their dinner parties, and though Tyki knew that he shouldn't have neglected them so, he felt a bit bolder when they didn't come find him right away.

They gave him a wide berth.

Wider than Tyki would have expected. But he supposed that his family couldn't just stop whatever it was they were doing to go check in on him and his little murder sprees. Exorcists certainly did, but they were always called away before they could find anything concrete—or killed—and though he could sense that the other Noah wanted to visit him, judging by the fact that they threw him questions about his behavior left and right, they couldn't come.

Simply because his mood was a volatile thing. Since he could no longer revert to his light form after that pesky boy's failed exorcism. He was depressed—slightly—he was _very_ torn about not being able to spend time with his human friends anymore, and he counted on Monet to provide him with the easy attention he once received from his poverty stricken—yet unquestionably happy—little group.

It was quiet with her.

Though that was only expected, since he'd killed everyone in the town. The world that surrounded them was filled with silence and ghosts. Thankfully, the village was out of the way enough that not many actually ventured there. Because if they did, all they'd find were slowly crumbling buildings and a few stray Akuma. Those poor travelers. Unlucky didn't even begin to describe them, should they actually stumble upon that ghost town.

Tyki stretched out over the faded couch, sighing at the discomfort of its lumpy cushions. Monet sat on the floor beside him, sewing one of her many dresses. There were surely better ways to pass the time, but he always felt lazy in her home. Idle. As if he needed to compete with the rest of the inanimate objects that sat languidly in their places. The moment he stepped out, however, always changed that. Though he wasn't outside right now. Nor did he plan to leave. And so, his slothful mood continued. Even his cigarette seemed to burn slower than usual.

He wanted to spend time with humans and since she was the only one left available to him, she would have to do. Besides, he didn't particularly hate her company. Nor was she clingy when he came. In fact, she didn't seem very lonely, despite the fact that no one dropped by anymore. Even if it was only for funeral services.

He'd ruined her business, he realized absently.

She'd probably leave soon. He doubted she could live on her own here—waiting for him her only pastime. He was fickle and went where he pleased, that was glaringly obvious to anyone that met him. Surely, she would tire of this place when he decided to disappear for an even longer period of time. And he would. Soon. Things were stirring again, and as a Noah, he'd be at the storm's center.

"Aren't you tired," Tyki asked reluctantly, "of this place?"

He didn't want to ask. He didn't want to hear her answer. But a part of him needed to. Because she couldn't stay here. Not by herself. Humans couldn't live on their own, despite whatever those so-called homebodies and recluses said otherwise. She'd go insane. Lose what little of her humanity she had left. This was a good place and he'd surely miss it, but she couldn't do what she loved here. And though he could still bring her bodies, it wasn't the same. It would never be.

Even he understood that she needed to move. Preferably sooner rather than later. Before he left this place to gather himself again. And he didn't know how long that would take.

Because with each passing day, he felt his composure slip farther and farther away from him. Along with his sanity. The fact that he could no longer revert to his light form affected him more than others knew. Monet, however, could see it. And he knew that. It was in the way those objective eyes stared at him, nothing but pure _knowing_ in their depths. It certainly wasn't good for him. He didn't like it. At least she never said anything in a vain attempt to ease him. He would have hated that far more.

"No," Monet finally said, relieving him from the torment brought by his own mind. "This is my home."

"You have nothing left to do," he told her. His tone dripping with fact. "A lot of towns would welcome a skilled mortician. Haven't you ever thought of leaving?"

"Then who would watch the cemetery?" she asked, surprising him. "Even the dead need keepers."

"And you?" he inquired, watching her through half-lidded eyes glazed over in envy. He missed being able to don the same pale skin she had. Missed seeing the world through black eyes. Missed being able to roam in the light. Life just wasn't interesting without that contrast. Though he'd never expected to be able to remain in the company of a human in his most basic form. He loved and hated it. "What about your keeper? Humans need someone to care for them."

"You sound as if you aren't one."

"I'm so much more," he revealed, noticing the smile on her face. She looked at him like he was just an illusion. But, for a moment, that notion disappeared entirely. "Gods, demons, friends. Anyone would do. You can't stay here on your own, you know? You'll die."

"I have you, don't I?"

His eyes widened and the cigarette cradled in his lips fell to the floor. He barely noticed. The look she gave him then told him that she was content to sit and wait for him to bring her more work. To clean up her house. To lounge on her horrid couch after a long time away. And that it filled her with pleasure to do all of those things. She was a terribly unfeeling creature, but it seemed that even she wasn't immune to him. Perhaps that was to be expected. He was the Noah of Pleasure after all.

And without preamble, one ashen hand found its way to the back of her neck to tug her forward. Until her lips met his in a pleasure-filled kiss.

He was never one to leash his desires.

* * *

When the Earl called for him after a particularly rough day. Tyki knew there was something wrong. That he'd hate what lay beyond the door where the Earl undoubtedly sat, waiting patiently for him.

Tyki hadn't seen Monet in a long time. He didn't count the days. But when days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into nothing, it was hard to. As he dreaded, he'd been correct when their workload suddenly spiked once more. When he lost to his envy, as he recalled her carefully doing what she pleased in her human skin. She was waiting for him, he knew. But it was just so hard to return when he wanted to tear the flesh from her bones so he wouldn't have to see its paleness. A stark contrast against him. He missed his light side terribly. And not even all the sadistic torture in the world could have tempted him from not wanting it back.

His hand remained still on the doorknob, as he wondered what it was Monet was doing right about now. There were no bodies for her to tend to. And last he saw, when he left her bed in the middle of the night, she was a bundle of satisfaction. That smiled as he pressed his lips against her. It was a good memory. And her happiness with his skill in bed was strictly a matter of course. Tyki thought of visiting her often, but it always died as soon as it formed.

He wouldn't visit her.

Not until he got his own emotions under control. Whether that was days from now or years didn't matter. He'd never tried the art of discipline. He doubted it would be fun. But he could try, he supposed. Lest he kill her in his madness.

Shaking his head, he opened the door. The heaviness in his gut seemed to have permanently settled there, and he doubted he'd be able to get rid of it until he actually saw what the Earl wanted to speak with him about.

"Tyki," the Earl greeted with that permanent smile of his. He gestured him further inside, an order Tyki willingly obliged to. "I have something for you."

It was then he saw a large square figure in the corner, covered by a beige blanket. A painting? No. It was too thick for that. A table, perhaps? Why in the world would the Earl get him a table? Was he trying to say he needed better table manners? Personally, he thought they were impeccable.

"I had it embalmed just for you," the Earl whispered, laughing dementedly. "Go on, have a look. Road and your siblings helped. They know you've been down, you know? I must say, the final product turned out to be quite beautiful. Even I'm envious."

Tyki raised an eyebrow at the Earl's words, his fingers trailing over the blanket, before he pulled it off in one swift motion. The cigarette in his mouth fell over his shoes, spreading ash everywhere. As he stared, shocked still, at the sight before him.

A coffin.

An Exorcist's coffin.

Was this some kind of joke? Where in the world did they get such a thing?

Without registering the action, his body took to muscle movement. Doing things without his consent, as if it had its own sense of morbid curiosity. The lid slipped up and what he saw made his fingers shake so violently, he almost lost his grip on the wood. Instead, he dug into it. His monstrous strength cracked the top, breaking the silence that had settled around them. It was accompanied by the Earl's demonic laughter. Tyki, however, wasn't so foolhardy as to tell the Earl to shut up. And it was his laughter that roused him, a dying echo so familiar that it kept him glued to reality. Even as his eyes remained stuck to the beautifully preserved figure of the one that slept.

"Monet," he whispered, eyes trailing over her delicate features. Over the pale skin he'd kissed and the unkempt hair he'd trailed his fingers through so many times before.

"Are you not happy?" the Earl asked, oblivious or just plain ignoring the way Tyki's face contorted.

 _Ah,_ Tyki realized, _I should have expected this._

Of course his family wouldn't leave him be so easily. Of course they'd interfere and do what they could to make him feel better. He'd spent time with humans, in a way, that made him the most human of them all. How could they understand that though he envied them— _her—_ he didn't want this. Not completely, anyway. What was the point then of him spending all of this time away?

Tyki plastered on a smile, flashing it to the Earl for the briefest of moments, before turning back to the coffin.

"I love it," he half-lied. And suddenly he felt sick to his stomach with his darker half.

The clean line of her throat was just as he remembered. As were her spindly limbs and thin mouth. Whoever had preserved her clearly knew what they were doing. It was like looking at her own work. He could even imagine the procedures needed with each different part. If he stared long enough, perhaps she'd actually start talking to him again. Making a mess of her home and narrowing her eyes in that way she did when he'd press her just a tad too far.

The Earl left him then, slipping outside with nothing more than his booming laughter trailing after him. Tyki didn't cry. But he might as well have been. His throat was hoarse and his fingers itched for a cigarette, but when he reached into his pocket, his lighter was nowhere to be found.

"Why now…" he murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes from the sight before him. Taking a deep breath to gather his wits, he tried to fight the strong scent of formaldehyde that assaulted his senses. His hands ran through his growing hair, it reached past his shoulders now. "Why now, why now, why now…" he chanted, looking for a matchbox. A lighter. Anything, really.

He found none.

Giving up, Tyki perched himself by her side. The coffin tilted dangerously, but he was able to find balance—somehow.

"Monet," he whispered once more. A far more private kind of whisper. Nothing more than a sigh. "Why are you here, Monet? Why are your eyes closed?"

She didn't answer.

The dead didn't listen to the living.

And, in that instant, the more emotional part of him saw why humans turned to Akuma.

"Come on, wake up. I can't stay if I have nothing to clean, you know?"

Effectively smothering the side of him that longed for her pale skin to be his own with a great deal of will, Tyki carefully folded both of her hands in his, bringing them to his forehead in silent, grieving apology. His fingers closed convulsively over her own.

"Did it hurt?" he asked, not sure why he was still talking. But it helped. In a strange sort of way. Talking to her helped. He didn't want to speak to anyone else.

And he swore he saw her head shift then.

But it was nothing more than the coffin tilting from his weight.

He cursed loudly. Uncharacteristically. He wanted to _hurt_ someone.

"It's alright," he finally assured. His lips turned up into a smile that spoke of mania and hurt. He _hated_ this. This unfinished tale that didn't fit, leaving him with a surge of unwelcome, unrelenting grief. Unkind and unfair. There were still too many chapters left unwritten, and here she was, bailing before the story reached its end. "This time, I can stay by your side," he promised, losing just a little bit more of himself. "No more work. We can even sit in silence. Whatever you want."

He brought her ice-cold fingers to his lips, pressing kisses on the tips in an effort to warm her. It didn't work. He continued it all the same. Until he finally let them fall to his chest, where his heart beat gently and strongly.

A contrast to her own finished song.

And his smile slipped. Along with a single tear that sank into pearl skin. The rest receded someplace inside of him. Where his darkness hid, festering.

"I have the freedom to do what I please today."

* * *

" _Tear off the mask. Your face is glorious."_

- _Rumi_

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _Aaand that's a wrap. How was it? I hope it wasn't too rushed. I didn't want to drag it on. This fic was finished rather quickly. It took like—what?—four days? I'm rather proud of myself, really. Anywho, I hope everyone enjoyed it! Thanks for sticking around. There aren't a lot of you, and I really appreciate all those that took the time to tell me what they thought. And the ones that tried this fic out. You guys are wonderful._

 _ **Just to clear up. Monet didn't become an Exorcist. The Noah just used whatever coffin they had on hand, and I wrote it as a sort of mockery. The Noah used their enemies coffin for their own twisted sort of funeral/get well surprise to Tyki. I wanted to show how they really didn't understand human emotions as well as Tyki. Maybe this was a bit overkill, but yea...**_

 _For the final time, this fic is dedicated to my friend, NightOwlCC, who has just discovered this fandom. I hope this was able to live up to your newfound love for Tyki._

…

 _ **Please Review!**_


	4. The Embalmer: Epilogue

Disclaimer: I don't own D. Gray Man.

* * *

 _ **The Embalmer © Blob80**_

 _ **Epilogue**_

…

 _The Conclusion, The Windup, The End,_

 _Final breaths, blank steps, useless mends,_

 _Heaven forsakes you now—but_ please _open your eyes,_

 _I'm still here, waiting for your cries._

* * *

Detachment was such a strange thing.

She knew what it was. Of course she did. Disinterest. Objectivity. Apathy. She'd felt it all before—or was seen it all before more accurate? No matter—she was sure of it. It was a vague certainty, but then again, everything was. Her memories were as blurry as the smoke that left that man's lips. It was terribly familiar. She recalled deep voices of the past, snippets of violence and love and passion, even a few restless nights spent in the company of dark humor and ash. The woman in her dreams was a tragically beautiful creature that donned dresses and pale skin. Her lips thinned many times. And more often than not, she was a numb little package that kept an even number exterior. But the few things she did feel were felt intensely. Powerful enough to leave anyone breathless.

But they were so far away. A far-off dream lost to the ringing in her ears and to that sweet voice dripping like caresses of poisonous honey. A man, she knew. Because his voice was deep and protective and loving. His voice was very kind. He always spoke softly. Yet was somehow able to remain in an invisible place past her reach. He kept his distance. Peculiar, for such a seemingly affectionate man.

And the pain, well that was distant, too— _now._

It was still there though. It hurt. She, however, didn't cry out. The only sign of her agony were the hot tears that streamed down hollow cheeks long cold, falling across paleness that bordered on sickly. And she wasn't sure where she was. Where she came from. Only that it hurt. _Everything_ hurt. And the man that whispered words of comfort was her only haunting constant, soothing her soul. Yet he blackened it as well. She didn't know how he did. But because that's all she was—a soul with a cage, but no body to hold her—she was able to see things through her haze. And one of those things was the steady darkening of the world around her. Or perhaps that was the man? She couldn't make out his features. The pain was a dull throb that blurred her vision.

Was he handsome? He certainly sounded like it. Funny, how one could tell so much from a voice. The man guarded her constantly. When he did leave, she didn't think it was for long. But the pain also spiked during those times, so time slipped from her. He'd talk a lot whenever he returned. She couldn't understand him, but his presence was enough. It distracted her from the scenes of that woman repeatedly playing itself in her mind.

An unending film of carcasses and draining blood.

She didn't fear those things—she was void of that. She remembered the thought of fear though. She knew what it looked like because of those scenes. The woman in her head companioned that particular emotion with an Earl's grin, purple hair, twin laughter, crunching lollipops; ashen gray skin that grabbed her from behind, pulling her hair in a hurtful way she never used to associate with the color. Hands with bruising grips that dragged her away from life, only to suddenly pull her back to its brink. But those weren't the same appendages, the woman knew. Because those gray hands were warm and gentle, as they cast her inside of a monster.

It wasn't pleasant.

Because that thing caging her never seemed to shut up. It poked and it prodded and it made her soul weep in its one and only display of emotion. And the scenes fizzled out there. She was sure there was a connection between that woman and her. Plain and apparent for all to see. But she couldn't link the dots. Even though all of the pieces were right there.

Just how long had this been going on? She didn't even know if there was something before this pain. But there must have been, right? She wished—a soul wishing, _ha!—_ because that meant there would be an after, too. And she wanted that after. Because there was one thing she truly, without a shred of doubt, _knew_. Knew more than the unsmiling woman in her head, more than the warm darkness embracing her, and more than the seemingly distant hurt.

She wanted to die.

 _Please,_ she cried, _kill me._

The man didn't seem to hear.

* * *

Monet was sleeping.

Again.

She did that a lot nowadays. She'd lay in bed like one of her clients. Her eyes closed to the world. Her face at peace. Her pale skin made even the white bed sheets in Tyki's room seem dark in comparison. But perhaps that was just his own biased sight fooling him. Yes, that was likely. Tyki usually played with a deck of cards to entertain himself. A habit he'd developed over the years. Now, it was just used to keep his fumbling hands busy whenever he was away. Because he'd find himself wanting to touch her and, more often than not, hurrying back to the mansion after one of the Earl's requests. The former craving, he happily indulged. Now that he was back here with her.

Tyki grasped her hands in his—her cold, cold hands—and he brought the tips of her fingers to his cheeks, smiling as he leaned fully against one of her limp palms. The action had long become familiar to him. His hair, which now sat in an unkempt ponytail behind him, whispered darkness along her thigh, as it slipped into her nightgown, as if it knew exactly what it was doing. Its dark hue provided a delicious contrast that he missed. Terribly.

Tyki also missed their casual conversations and the slight expressions that would grace her face when he did something to rile her. When he'd lean back on her couch and just stare. As he let himself relax and fall into a state that could only be achieved in her presence. Was Monet mad at him? She'd always been observant. Always able to understand him through those frozen eyes. Could she sense his envy for her human skin? Was that why she wasn't speaking to him? No. Tyki shook his head, the ashes of his cigarette drifting to the ground as he did so. He'd already sunken low enough to do the unforgivable. Just another victim of his untamable desire—for her.

It controlled him. It still did. He didn't mind. Not really.

Because now he knew of all of the sorry things that happened when he did bother to go against his whimsies. Tyki, though, wouldn't lose the little he still held. The little of him he could control. Like his realizations, for one. Monet had died. That was fact.

And he'd brought her back. Also, fact.

Tyki's hands dropped hers, carefully placing them in what he assumed was a comfortable position for her. As he scooted forward to brush his hands along her skin. Paler than death. But still beautiful. And he bent down to place a tender kiss above the dip of her collarbone. She'd lost the scent of a mortician. Instead, she was bathed in his. Blood, smoke, and something distinctly _him—_ and now her as well _._ But that was to be expected, since she spent her days sleeping in his bed like one of those strange princesses with tragic stories. Monet wasn't a princess though. And he was tempted to wake her. But he couldn't do that. His aversions trumped his wants in that case. Because he didn't want her to look into his eyes, awaiting an order he didn't want to give. He didn't want her to blindly obey him or any of the other Noah. He didn't want to see her suddenly shed the skin he so adored, only for strange machinations to take its place. He didn't want his greed to chase what was left of her away.

He didn't want an Exorcist to cut her down.

Level ones were such pitiful things.

Tyki just wanted her back. He got that. It should have been enough. But, of course, it wasn't. When was anything ever enough for him? He wanted her back—fully, completely—he wanted her to grin wryly at him and make tasteless jokes. Only level two's, however, had personalities. Only they spoke proper words. Only they held emotions. He knew that. As a Noah, he knew everything about the Akuma. Suddenly, he wanted to laugh derisively at himself, but such bitter tones disappeared from him when he was in her presence. Because some part of him still wanted to play the gentlemanly demon that came to clean her home and offer her jobs, as he spoke to her with a needlessly polite tongue.

He could always bring her people to kill. But that was also an impossibility. And the other Noah didn't understand his fake smile enough to think him unhappy. So, at least they didn't interfere. The one thing he was thankful for. Because Monet's role was to clean and beautify the people he murdered. His was to keep her company while she did so. Forever thrilled by the fact that he'd never directly sully her hands. Tyki wouldn't go out of his way to stain them directly by bringing her people to slaughter. Because it was a game.

Their game.

Tyki couldn't just stop. Bend the rules, perhaps. But never so drastically. He had standards. And he loved their game too much to trample over it in such a way. Besides, some sick, twisted part of him actually preferred her like this. Because if she evolved and developed, she might be… _different._

"How was your day?" Tyki suddenly asked in an effort to distract himself from his own traitorous thoughts. He looked down at her, placing feather light touches along her eyelids. As he carelessly dropped his cigarette on the nearby nightstand. "Mine was dreadful. The twins grated on me all afternoon with their childish insults. Can you believe they were actually reprimanding me for sleeping in late? Just because they woke up early for once. And Road's been asking about you. Which is a whole other problem in itself. Even my thoughts seem to be going against me today."

Monet didn't answer. Not like he expected her to. But that didn't stop the rush of disappointment when he paused for her out of instinct—and her lips remained still. Preserved little doll. Marionette. The word was so alike her name, he cringed. Because here he was, playing puppeteer. With his invisible strings of control he used to command all Akuma, except her, his favorite. Their game seemed to have changed along the way. He hated it.

Death always plagued him.

"I've been trying to revert into my light form, but I'm afraid I can't anymore. But being able to speak with you helps."

And that was the truth.

Filling the silence that consumed her helped. And surprisingly, it didn't bore him into slumber. So, he did it often. He liked to think he did it well, too. Despite its selfishness. Because once again, it was more for himself than it was for her. For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder if he could order her to have a personality. Perhaps things would go back to the way they were. No, of course it couldn't. That was no longer an option. Humans were such fragile things. The Noah understood that, but they didn't seem to understand the feelings involved when their loved ones turned them into Akuma. They didn't understand his feelings. His human feelings.

And his eyes widened then.

Human.

Bright skin. Dark eyes. Easy laughter.

 _Light._

So, he did retain something. And suddenly, he wanted to cry out. Laugh mockingly at himself, at his situation, at life. He'd envied her because of her form. Envied her because of her ability to go anywhere and blend in perfectly. Yet, she didn't use it. Because she had no need of anyone else but him. But of all the things to keep, why did it have to be these—useless—emotions? He would have preferred his white skin. Almost as pale as her own. And Tyki couldn't stop the spontaneous finger that trailed down her arm, slipping inside of her nightgown to adjust the falling strap back over one delicate shoulder. She was as fragile as he remembered. During that one breathy night spent wrapped in her sheets and legs, she was frail. Feeble, even. Perhaps even more so now. Too far gone to even move without shedding the physical part of herself that he adored.

If he ordered her to, would she wake? Would she be able to move, against all odds? Would she stand up and—beneath those no longer seeing depths—look at him like she used to?

Could he handle it if she did?

There was only one way to find out.

Tyki wore his best smirk and leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

"Monet," he breathed, "wake up."

Her eyes snapped open as commanded. Her gaze unseeing, before it cleared and promptly turned to him. Monet's stare was a cold thing. But Tyki was heated by it. A fire lit in his stomach like magic—or like some pesky, unused Innocence hiding somewhere in his bed sheets—before spreading up his head and down to the soles of his feet. Her head was tilted to the side in a gesture that reminded him very much of the numb mortician he first met, the same one whose feelings he warmed. No. She was the same. And so were those unflinching eyes.

"Can you move?" Tyki asked. "I command you to move."

Monet remained inert. Though she tried. He knew she did—even if she didn't shift an inch—because a crack ripped her skin and darkness peeked through. Followed by light. Her eyes took on a different hue and Tyki shuddered as her body was wracked by screams. He didn't have to be a genius to know what was happening. His hands were immediately on her shoulders, pushing her down. As his lips swallowed one of her shrieks, before he replaced them with a finger in a fruitless effort to shush her. He knew she'd only be quieted by one thing.

"Shhh…" he hushed.

Her cries immediately ceased.

And Tyki wanted to vomit.

"Come now, I didn't mean it," he amended, wiping the tears that trailed down her cheeks. She was still again. The crack stopped growing. Her eyes were closed in peace. And he sighed, cradling his chin in his palm, as he watched her. "Don't you want to take a walk? Eat dinner? Work? Stay in this cramped room with me any longer and you'll ruin your lungs."

She just breathed.

"I won't force you."

She didn't hear him—no, ignored him was more accurate.

"But," he murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against her own. Dark hair fell onto white skin in a way that should have tickled. Monet didn't even smile. "I miss you, Monet. Won't you come back to me?"

Nothing.

"Well…" he trailed off, grabbing her hand and kissing it. She was in pain. She must've been. He'd seen the endless torment the souls turned into Akuma went through so many times before. But he simply nuzzled his nose in her palm and plastered a smile on his face, despite his aching heart. He could easily ignore wrenching throbs. His own desires, not so much. He wasn't altruistic, nor did he ever pretend to be. And she knew that. She knew that very well. He knew she did.

He leaned back, hand still in hers, as he stole his prize from the nearby nightstand. His cigarette was mostly gone by now. But the relief he felt when he dragged it to his lips and watched as the slothful clouds blew over them both never diminished. At that moment, he was transported back to that night where she merely slept and he watched over her, both their chests drumming in satisfaction. She looked well. Healthy. Alive. Absolutely beautiful. And he gave the desire to run his eyes across her form free reign in a way that would usually make her stare icily at him.

"I suppose lazy days are okay, too," he muttered, taking another long drag, effectively finishing his _coffin nail_ , as she once called it. The thought of when she did made him laugh. It just… fit her so well. He really had to stop laughing at tasteless jokes and bad puns. Especially when it involved her. "Though I will have to take you out tomorrow. We can't always do what you want, Monet."

Tyki swore she smiled.

He knew better though. It was just another trick of the light. An illusion of the mind. His eyes saw what they wanted to see because of those human emotions he so loved, yet somehow hated all at once. Like some terrible delusion. Her face was impassive. As it usually was. Still, it was brighter than anything else around him— _somehow._ And he promised himself he'd make it happen. He'd find a way to make a sleeping level one follow him. Talk to him. Ease him. Beautify those already dead. Even, eat. Like how a human would. Like how _she_ would. He'd do it—he'd definitely do it—one of these days.

He certainly wasn't in need of test subjects. Akuma were born every day. All for his favorite marionette— _no_ —his Monet. Until then, he'd sit contentedly. Tyki may not have had much patience, but he had time. A lot of it.

Besides, there was pleasure in presence.

* * *

 _I know of a place,_

 _Somewhere between dream and awake,_

 _You linger there now, but I'll drag you away,_

 _With fingers of ashen gray,_

 _Don't resist—I'll seize your hands,_

 _Because I miss you, understand?_

* * *

 _A/N: This is the finale. For real this time. Thanks to_ _ **misminor**_ _for inadvertently giving me the sudden bout of motivation I needed to write the epilogue so quickly. I hadn't really planned to. It's a lot shorter than the other chapters, but I never planned on making it longer._ _ **Since it's just an extra scene.**_ _I loved this fic as I do all my others and am sad to see it end. But, alas, it's high time I start giving my other fics the attention they deserve._

…

 _ **Please Review!**_

 _Blob80 Out._


	5. Author's Note

I released a fantasy novel. You can find more information on my original fiction blog. The URL is on my profile. (Please manually input because FF links are currently malfunctioning.)

That is all.


End file.
